


Everyone Living in Ghost Town

by neglectedtuesday



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Retail, Background Lonely Eyes, Developing Relationship, Elias is regular capitalist evil as opposed to cosmic evil, Fluff, Halloween, Haunted Houses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Martin only takes the job because he is completely and utterly out of options. Seasonal work is not ideal, especially a season that is technically only one month even though he starts on the first of September, but any work is better than no work and besides, the company is an events company so when Christmas rolls around perhaps Martin might be rehired to be an elf or Santa or something.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 23
Kudos: 150





	Everyone Living in Ghost Town

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Spooky Season! This idea wouldn't leave me alone, even though the UK doesn't really do Haunted Houses. Although if they did, Elias would exploit them for fear and profit. 
> 
> As usual for the Mechpreg group chat, because I love them, even though I loathe the group chat name.

Martin only takes the job because he is completely and utterly out of options. Seasonal work is not ideal, especially a season that is technically only one month even though he starts on the first of September, but any work is better than no work and besides, the company is an events company so when Christmas rolls around perhaps Martin might be rehired to be an elf or Santa or something. 

He’s interviewed by a man who seems like he should be the head of an institute or dean of a university rather than a proprietor of a haunted house ‘ _ immersive’  _ experience, but Martin doesn’t exactly have a spooky aura either so he’s not going to judge. After a brief tour of his new working environment, Martin figures that Elias Bouchard is emulating a Hannibal Lecter style creepiness as opposed to Freddy Kreuger. 

“You’ll be fitted for a costume of course, you’re not allergic to face paint or latex are you?” Elias asks, escorting Martin to the exit.

“Not that I know of.”

Elias makes a contemplative noise.

“Well a rash would work in your favour in terms of creating a horrifying first impression, but I’m sure we’ll find a work around if that’s the case. I’ll see you next week Martin, remember to bring your contract with you.”

Martin is ushered out into the late August sunshine, the door closing with an eerie creek and thump behind him. Martin gets halfway down the street before allowing himself a small fist pump of joy.

——

Martin turns up to his fitting half an hour early, partially to make a good impression, partially because he misjudged the train times completely and didn’t feel like hanging around awkwardly outside. September has brought a chill with its arrival, blowing away the summer heat and forcing Martin to break out a cable knit jumper.

Elias shows him to the fitting room, leafing through Martin's contract to check he’s signed in all the right places.

“Gerard will show you how to use the till,” Elias says, tucking the contract under his arm, “although it’s very straight forward. You mentioned working retail before so I don’t think this will be a stretch.”

They come to a nondescript black door with a badly taped paper sign on it that reads costumes in block capitals. Elias puts one hand on the handle but turns to look at Martin rather than opening the door.

“Now, despite Jon’s demeanour, he is not actually your boss and thus cannot force you to wear anything you are not comfortable with. Don’t let him bully you.”

“Is he likely to? Bully me that is.”

“He’s an artist,” Elias replies loftily as if that explains anything and opens the door.

The room inside is larger than Martin was expecting. On the left wall, elaborate costumes hang from silver rails. In the corner beside them is a long black curtain, presumably a place to change. Along the opposite wall are vanity tables bursting with makeup. Prosthetics and wigs are stacked on shelves that start from the top of the mirrors and go up to the ceiling.

Against the back wall is a large gilt mirror next to a maroon velvet sofa, which has seen better days. A goth in a tank top and parachute pants is lounging in the middle of it, legs sprawled and typing away on his phone one handed. 

Standing on a footstool in the front of the mirror is a tall Filipino man dressed in a blood stained scientist's lab coat. He gives Martin a roguish smile before saying: 

“Ah, fresh meat.”

Before Martin can say anything, a head pops out from behind the man’s back. A small Indian man, with grey streaked dark hair pulled back in messy bun and wire rimmed glasses attached to a pearl chain, emerges from where he’d been tacking up the bottom of the coat. He brow furrows as he fold his arms across his chest. A yellow tape measure hangs loosely around his neck. 

“Out!” he commands.

“Now Jon, that’s no way to speak to the man who pays your wages.” Elias’s tone is surprisingly indulgent.

“You are here to meddle and up with that I will not put. Begone.” 

“This is Martin,” Elias says, placing a hand on Martin’s lower back to push him forward. “He’s our new ticket taker, be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Jon grumbles, turning away from Martin to regard the man on the stool. “Don’t slouch Tim.”

“I’m not slouching!”

“You are, now stay still.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem genuinely annoyed. 

The soft close of the door signals Elias’s departure, leaving Martin to the ministrations of Jon, whatever that might mean.

Martin hovers awkwardly, not sure what to say or do. He slides his jacket off, folding it over his arm, just so he has something to do.

“As you might have worked out from context clues, I’m Tim,” Tim says. “On the sofa is Gerry, your wise guide to all things booth related.” 

He gestures to the goth, who raises a hand in greeting.

“And this grumpy git is Jon, costumier, makeup artist and encyclopaedia of all things horror related. His bark is much worse than his bite. Ow!”

Jon glares up at Tim. “Stay still.”

“You stabbed me on purpose.”

“Be grateful that Helen isn’t available today, she would stab you instead of giving a warning.”

Jon has a large felt pumpkin on his wrist, where his pins are stored. It seems rather kitschy, a contrast to Jon’s sharp white shirt and blue slacks. He plucks a pin with nimble fingers, adjusting the lab coat hem and pinning it in place. 

“You,” Jon says, gesturing to Martin, “Martin was it, sit down I’ll be with you in a moment. Tim, I won’t tell you again.”

“I can’t help it,” Tim whines, “it’s the ADHD.” 

Martin doesn’t feel confident enough to ask Gerry to move over, so he perched on the burgundy stool beside the makeup table. He assumes there’s some sort of order here though there doesn’t appear to be one. Brushes of every size are stored in several terracotta flower pots, haphazardly placed amongst makeup palettes, face paint and an astonishing amount of body glitter. Martin runs his fingers along the tasseled edges of the stool, trying to come up with a reason why a horror event would need that much glitter and thus doesn’t notice Jon approaching him until the man is right beside him. Martin jumps when Jon clears his throat, somehow managing not to fall off the stool.

“Not jumpy are you Martin?” Tim asks, hopping down from the footstool. There’s a suspicious glimmer in his eye.

Martin opens his mouth to reply but Jon grabs his chin, tilting his face to one side. Martin can feel the tops of his ear flushing bright red, falsely hoping that his cheeks are spared the colour. 

Sitting down, Martin is still quite tall and in this position, Jon is maybe only a head taller than him. It means Martin has to look up and endure Jon’s judgmental face at close range. Jon’s eyes are a deep, rich black, like volcanic soil. They’re beautiful, despite being laser focussed on Martin’s chubby cheeks.

“You’ve got a lot of… freckles,” Jon says. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Martin asks.

Jon shrugs. “Just an observation. How attached are you to your glasses?”

“Very. I need them to see.”

“So no coloured contact lenses?” 

“Definitely not.” 

Jon hums, tilting Martin’s face the other way. 

“You’ve got good skin.”

“Thank you,” Martin says, unsure whether it was a real compliment but taking it as one anyway. 

“The face paint will make you break out of course,” Jon continues, “but as long as you take it off properly you should be fine.”

He lets go of Martin’s face, reaching over the vanity to pick up a green eyeshadow palette. He gnaws his lip absentmindedly, holding the palette up next to Martin’s face.

“Green usually means Frankenstein, right,” Martin jokes.

“Frankenstein was the doctor not the monster,” Jon replies, somewhat snippily. “And mad Doctor Stoker is enough for one haunted house.”

“I never went to medical schoooool,” Tim chimes in, “I’m in private practise and charging you a fortuuuune.” 

Jon snorts, probably the closest he gets to laughing. Martin idly wonders what would make him laugh, how hard he would have to work at it. 

He startles when Jon runs a finger under Martin’s jaw, once again tilting it upwards.

“Are you usually this handsy?” Martin asks, tone bordering hysterical. 

Gerry laughs, a short, sharp sound.

“Better get used to it,” Gerry says, “Jon is nothing if not through.”

“Elias says you’re an artist,” Martin says. Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Elias would.”

Martin isn’t sure how to interpret that statement. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Jon murmurs, more to himself than Martin. And then he’s gone, badgering Gerry to get up on the footstool and snapping at Tim to get his feet off the sofa.

—— 

Tim takes it upon himself to introduce Martin to everyone, although he won’t stop calling Martin the ‘booth babe’ and waggling his eyebrows. 

The haunted house is a winding pathway from the basement, or Tim’s laboratory, up to the attic, where Gerry will try to induct you into his nest of vampires. Along the way, there’s Michael’s psychedelic corridor, deliberately designed to discombobulate; Melanie’s kitchen, wherein you could end up on the dinner table; Daisy’s cage, watch the wolf woman howl, and other assorted themed rooms and jump scares. Eventually you end up in the gift shop, where Basira will try to flog you a picture of your terrified face on a keychain, mouse-mat or commemorative mug. 

Martin isn’t sure how all these different pieces fit together, but then again, he’s never been a horror fan and would never be convinced to visit this kind of attraction. Luckily he just has to sit behind plexiglass, smile and accept money, while watching Sasha leap out from around the corner to scare people in the queue. 

Martin also isn’t sure why he’s expected to wear an elaborate costume, but Elias insists it adds to the ambiance. 

Elias unnerves Martin. He seems a bland middle management type, but he runs a haunted house and his suits look handmade in an expensive way. When he smiles, it never reaches his eyes, or it does and then his smile implies that he’s about to unhinge his jaw like a snake and swallow Martin whole. For some inexplicable reason, despite the suits and general moneyed appearance, Elias has his right ear pierced but only wears a dangly gold earring in the shape of an eye. 

He tries to ask Tim what Elias’s whole deal is but only gets a brusque:

“We don’t talk about Bouchard. And if a man who looks like Captain Birdseyes before they made him weirdly hot in an older man way turns up, do not let him buy a ticket and do not tell him whether Elias is in.”

Tim shudders, staring off slightly into the middle distance as if plagued by horrors Martin can only imagine. 

Martin wisely chooses to heed the advice, instead of enquiring further.

——

Martin meets Helen for the first time on the first night they’re officially open for paying customers. The preceding week was all set up and tutorials; Elias is a stickler for health and safety, despite his facial expressions suggesting otherwise. Martin gets the impression that death on site paperwork is a joy Elias only gets to experience rarely, and maybe if Elias has been particularly evil this year, he’ll get the treat of filling some out. 

Regardless, Elias makes them do several fire drills, and warns the smokers of the group against lighting up indoors. He pointedly ignores Melanie when she calls him a hypocrite. Melanie later explains that Elias is a massive stoner disguised as a gentleman. 

“What makes you think he’s a gentleman?” Martin asks.

Melanie scratches her nose, using her tongue to spin her lip ring, as she considers her answer.

“He uses sock garters to hold up his weed socks.”

The number of co2 extinguishers would be unnerving without everyone mentioning the quote ‘ _ worm fiasco of 2016 _ ’ unquote, but Martin is aware of London’s ability to burn and burn quickly, so he’s grateful there is some sort of safety net. He adds worm fiasco to the list of things it’s better not to ask about.

Helen is a tall, willowy black woman, who favours 80s power suits in clashing colours and has a smile like an estate agent. Her nails look too long to be able to do anything. 

“Oh Jon you didn’t tell me he was cute.”

Jon bristles like a cat that’s fallen in a sink. “Why would I — not that you’re not — using the adjective cute is belittling!”

Helen laughs, patting Jon on the arm fondly. He stalks off to the changing curtain, rustling it ominously and barking at Daisy to hurry up.

“Alright, keep your hair on,” Daisy replies, sticking her head out. “This tail isn’t easy to get on you know.” 

“I’ll do it,” Jon snaps.

“Oh Jon,” Daisy teases, “you can’t come in, I’m not decent.”

Jon looks like he’s about to have a minor breakdown. Daisy takes pity on him and yanks him through the curtain. 

Helen spins on her heel, clapping her hands. Few people are taller than Martin, it’s rare he has to look up at people. Helen is ridiculously tall, slightly helped by her high heels, and she leans over him gleefully, eyes sparkling. 

“So,” she says, “what masterpiece are we making you into?”

Jon had made Martin try on several costumes at his fitting, as well as doing a patch test for the face paint. The good news was that Martin is not allergic to face paint. The less good news was that Jon couldn’t seem to decide what Martin should be dressed as, so Martin has no clue. He hopes it won’t be embarrassing. 

“Well,” Helen says, stroking her chin in an exaggerated manner. “I’m sure there’s something in this house of horrors that will make you as ghoulish as possible. Or perhaps we maximise on cuteness, I’m sure you’d make the sweetest little black cat.”

“I’m not really little —“ 

Jon appears from behind the curtain like a rabbit from a hat, his glasses askew. He points an accusatory finger at Helen. 

“Absolutely not, Martin is mine.” 

Helen’s eyes glitter wickedly. “Oh is he?”

“You know what I mean. Martin, have a seat. Helen, where are Daisy’s contacts?” 

Martin flops down on the sofa, sinking down into its soft embrace. Helen and Jon bicker amicably around him. They have a frantic, kinetic energy together; they gesture with brushes as well as their hands, passing each other exactly what is needed without asking. Martin watches Daisy morph into a werewolf, teeth and all, witnesses Melanie turn from a punky twenty something into a murderous fifties housewife. Jon gets a little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. Martin fiddles with the hem of his shirt, imagining himself reaching forward to run his fingers over Jon’s face, smoothing away the tension Jon carries in the sharp angles of his body.

Martin isn’t someone who usually mediates on people’s hands but with Jon it’s hard to stop staring. Jon’s entire job is reliant on his hands; he moves them with a graceful delicacy, but there’s determination and intent behind each movement. Jon is a man who moves with purpose, someone who doesn’t fidget like Martin does. Martin always taps his feet or bounces his knee, when he’s tired, he can’t stop shifting his restless legs. He plays with loose threads, runs material between his forefinger and thumb, taps morse code messages to himself on his thighs. 

Martin looks at his own hands. They’re soft from the shea butter body creme he uses, but fairly unassuming. He has a small scar on his thumb where he accidentally cut himself with a pen knife when he was a scout. His nails could use some tlc, they’re a little ragged at the edges. Jon’s nails are painted navy blue, except his ring fingers which are bright gold. Martin’s never been brave enough to paint his nails. Maybe, if he asks, Jon might paint them for him. 

“Martin,” Jon says, interrupting Martin’s daydreaming, “come along, behind the curtain please.”

Jon goes to the costume rails, pushing aside several plunge neck Morticia dresses to retrieve a cloudy plastic suit cover. Their fingers brush when Martin goes to take it from Jon. 

“Thank you,” Martin squeaks, hurrying behind the curtain. 

Inside the suit cover is a plain white shirt, a cinnamon coloured Victorian style waistcoat and dark brown trousers. The buttons of the waistcoat are burnished gold. Martin changes quickly, glad that he’s not required to wear anything too risque. He folds his own clothes up carefully, pulling the curtain back completely. 

Jon is waiting, a silk caramel paisley scarf in his hand. He eyes the fit of Martin’s costume, reaching up to wrap the scarf around Martin’s neck. Martin lets out a soft exhale. Jon is so close that Martin can smell Jon’s cologne. It has a gentle, woodlike smell that reminds Martin of bonfires and caramel apples. Martin wants to look away, but he doesn’t. 

Jon ties the scarf to look like an ascot before running his hands along Martin’s shoulders, checking that the waistcoat sits right. He smooths down the fabric with broad, business-like strokes of his palms. Martin licks his lips nervously. Jon’s hands go to Martin’s hips, running along the waistband of the trousers. Everything fits perfectly, Martin isn’t sure the hands-on approach is needed but he’s not going to complain. 

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be,” Martin says, pleased that his voice comes out normal and not breathy. Jon looks up at him, lips curling at the corner.

“That’s because I’m not finished with you.” 

Jon steps away, walking off to the corner where shoe boxes are stacked. Martin swallows, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Tim, who Helen is steadily covering in fake blood, catches Martin’s eye and gives him a sly wink. Martin looks away, cheeks burning. 

“Shoes,” Jon says, thrusting them into Martin’s hands. They’re leather brown spats, with a slight heel and copper cog on the ankle. 

“Do I need shoes? No one’s going to see my feet.”

“Of course you need shoes,” Jon replies, “you can’t wear the ones you brought.”

“They’re nice shoes.”

“They don’t match. Now, shoes! On!”

Martin puts the spats on. He struggles with the tiny buttons for a few minutes before Jon pushes his hands out of the way and buttons them in less than ten seconds. 

“Sit there,” Jon instructs, “glasses off.” 

Martin dutifully takes off his glasses, putting them on the vanity. He folds his hands in his lap, looking up at Jon with a soft smile. Jon reaches forward, closing Martin’s eyes with his fingertips. 

The first press of primer against Martin’s skin is a little unnerving but Martin adjusts quickly. Jon is gentle, muttering to himself as he works. He’s talking through his process, a running commentary as he applies eyeshadow and face paint. 

Martin opens his eyes so Jon can paint under his lower eyelashes. Jon frowns, holding up a palette of brown eyeshadows. He dips his brush into the tawny golds and shimmering sepia, leans back to grab a brown eyeliner pencil to tuck behind his ear. 

Time slips away, the moment feels infinite and yet all too short. Martin doesn’t even fidget, too busy concentrating on Jon, on cataloging even second to think about later. 

“There,” Jon says, handing Martin his glasses, “perfect.”

Martin turns to look in the mirror, sliding his glasses into place. He gasps. His face looks like a clockwork doll, part of it fractured open to reveal the delicate cogs and gears beneath. His skin has been fashioned into copper sheeting, bolted together, it even glimmers in the stark overhead lighting. 

“Wow,” Martin says, “you’re a genius.” 

“Oh well,” Jon says, suddenly bashful, “thank you Martin.”

“No seriously! This is amazing, my face looks like metal! You’ve done gears!” 

Jon gives Martin a genuine smile. It changes his whole face, shaves off years and softens him. Warmth spreads through Martin’s chest. 

Jon ducks his head, collecting his brushes. 

“You’re done, so off you go. Time to man the till and swindle people of their hard earned cash for cheap horrors.” 

“Nothing that you or Helen has made looks cheap,” Martin says firmly. 

Jon gives him a wry smile, giving Martin a light push in the sternum to get him moving. Martin goes, body thrumming with every touch Jon has given him. 

——

Martin enjoys working the booth. Groups of people are let in on a staggered basis to prevent the house from getting too crowded and most people pre-book tickets online so all Martin has to do is check them, accepting money from the occasional walk-in. During lulls, Martin reads a book or scribbles poetry in his notebook. The job is simple, relaxed and best of all, Martin is far away from the scares and screaming.

Horror is not really Martin’s thing. He doesn’t mind a kids halloween movie, he found Corpse Bride to be sweet and Hocus Pocus is a classic, but given the choice, he’d much rather watch Pride and Prejudice than Paranormal Activity. So far, he hasn’t been asked for his opinion on the genre, though Melanie, Tim and Jon get into heated debates every shift. Jon and Melanie aim to have structured, well-thought out debates. Tim just likes chaos. 

“For the last time,” Jon growls, smearing fake blood on Tim’s face, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers is not allegory for communism.”

“It’s not,  _ not  _ an allegory for communism,” Tim replies. Jon’s expression could make statues out of Greek heroes. Martin buries his nose further into his Richard Siken book.

“Just because the director didn’t intentionally make it about the red scare, doesn’t mean the source material can’t be interpreted that way ,” Melanie argues, opening a punnet of green grapes. “Although it could be about any scare. It could be about the lavender scare if it wasn’t so heterosexual.”

“Seventies or fifties version?” Tim asks.

“Fifties” Melanie replies, throwing a grape in the air and catching it in her mouth. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tim mutters.

“The main dude in that movie is so horny! All he wants to do is have sex with Becky, he only knows she’s been podded after he kisses her! I’m assuming with tongue.”

“It’s the fifties no one uses tongue—” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course they used tongue—”

“Oh you’re the expert on nineteen-fifties tongue?”

“Everybody go to work!” Jon shouts over their bickering. Tim makes a placating gesture as he backs away from Jon. Melanie shrugs, cramming more grapes into her mouth.

“The hamster look is very sexy for you,” Tim says as he shuts the door behind him, yelping when Melanie punches him in the shoulder.

Jon gives a long sigh, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. Martin slots his bookmark between the pages, then tucks his book into his bag. 

“I think they exaggerate their fights to annoy you,” Martin offers. 

“I’m aware, thank you Martin.”

Martin ducks his head, mollified. Jon stretches his arms above his head, groaning softly as the joints pop. His shirt rides up, revealing a flat stomach and dark, thick treasure trail. Martin looks harder at his thighs. 

They both remain quiet when Jon applies Martin’s makeup, but when Jon is finished, he coughs awkwardly, brow furrowed as if he’s building up to something.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean… I can be a bit short with people.”

“Everyone’s short to me,” Martin jokes. His face drops as he realises what he’s just said. “God, that was such a stupid thing to say.”

Jon’s mouth quirks, as if he wants to smile but is stopping himself. “Yes, well, I’m sorry all the same.” 

“It’s ok,” Martin says, patting Jon’s hand. “But if you feel really bad, you could always bring me a pumpkin spice latte on my break.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s mid-September and I haven’t had one yet, truly a travesty.”

——

Jon buys him a pumpkin spice latte. He brings it during a quiet moment, moving so silently that Martin doesn’t know he’s there until Jon taps him on the shoulder. Martin jumps.

“Bloody hell Jon, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“It’s not my fault you’re unobservant,” Jon replies. His grin is so unbelievably smug, it almost makes Martin furious. 

“You snuck up on me deliberately.”

“I did. Anyway, here you are.” 

Jon offers the coffee cup. Martin stares at it. 

“Do you… buy me a pumpkin spice latte?”

“I did. Though I don’t know why you like them, truly appalling taste.”

“I mean, I’m more of a tea person.”

Jon’s face does something weird, like he’s gone through several stages of grief in the space of thirty seconds. 

“Did you want tea?”

“No,” Martin says, reaching to take the cup, “this was very kind of you, thank you Jon.”

Jon watches Martin take a sip, shoulders relaxing once Martin shows obvious enjoyment. He leans against the table, folding his arms across his chest. 

Silence falls over the booth. It’s not awkward, but it’s not quite comfortable either. Martin has never been alone with Jon, he realises. There’s always someone else there, another colleague in the background or part of the conversation. 

“Your lipstick has smudged,” Jon says. 

“I would blame it on the coffee,” Martin replies, “but I know it’s cause I bite my lips. I keep forgetting to buy chapstick.” 

Jon reaches into the pocket of trousers, retrieving a tube of black lipstick.

“Were you just carrying that around?”

“It pays to be prepared.”

“You don’t strike me as the Boy Scout type.”

“I was for a while. But I’m not really a camping person. Now, will you let me?”

“Are you going to ask me to pucker up?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Martin leans forward, letting his mouth drop open. The lipstick is a creamy black, it slides across Martin’s lips with practised ease. 

Logically Martin knows that Jon is just doing his job, that the intimacy of makeup application is because of the proximity of the artist to their subjects' faces. When Jon applies makeup to other people, it’s skilled but emotionless. Not quite emotionless exactly, Jon will snort at Tim’s jokes or brush tangles from Daisy’s hair, but it’s different. There isn’t an electric charge, a spark of something. 

Martin might be wrong. Maybe the spark is all him. Wouldn’t be the first time Martin misread a signal. 

But then again, he might be right. 50/50 chances are like that. Heads you win. 

Someone coughs, outside the booth. Martin swings round in his chair, customer service smile already pasted on.

“Not interrupting anything am I?” 

The white man standing behind the glass is huge, probably even taller than Martin. He’s broad too, takes up space like an eclipse. All of his hair is shockingly white, like it’s been salt bleached, from his neatly trimmed beard to the curl of locks hidden beneath a weathered sailors cap. He’s dressed in a large navy overcoat that only serves to highlight how broad his shoulders are. 

“Peter,” Jon says, managing to pack a lot of venom into one small word.

“Jonathan, nice to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.”

“Pity, I rather thought we’d progressed past this.” 

Jon retrieves a piece of paper from underneath the till. It has a fuzzy picture of Peter on it, with the word banned in red capitals above. Jon smacks it against the glass.

“You and Elias are currently divorced, which means you are banned from the premises.”

Peter chuckles, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a wooden pipe carved in the shape of a mermaid. 

“Um, you can’t smoke in here,” Martin says. 

Peter ignores him, fussing about with tobacco.

“Tell Elias, if he’s not too busy running this little _ enterprise _ , that I’m staying at this hotel. I’m not in town long, so he better be quick about it.”

Peter slides a business card through the hole where Martin usually takes money, then turns on his heel and leaves, whistling as he goes.

“What the hell was that?” Martin asks.

“God, they’re the absolute worst.”

“Should I give that card to Elias?”

“No,” Jon says firmly, “I think you should burn it and scatter it’s ashes to the wind.” 

“Now Jon, you know how I feel about arson.”

Elias’s silken tones catch Martin off guard and he flinches so violently that he almost falls off his seat.

Elias picks the card up, twirling it between his fingers. He’s dressed in a crimson checked suit today, pocket square and all. He is sans earring, but making up for it with an eye patterned tie. The fact that Martin can tell that the pattern is supposed to be eyes is testament to Elias’s insistent commitment to that aesthetic 

“Spying through the CCTV,” Jon says. Elias’s lips quirk into a smug smirk. 

“Just making sure Peter wasn’t misbehaving.”

“Can’t you and Peter have a normal divorce like other people?”

Elias sighs, sounding very put upon. “Alas, we aren’t normal people Jon. Ours is a passionate, albeit spiteful relationship, and really, we’re too well suited to be with anyone else.” 

“I’m not making a fifth wedding suit.”

“You will because I pay you handsomely for it. Now, back to work, we have civilians to scare.”

Jon makes a disgruntled noise, disappearing out the back of the booth. Elias stinks away into the darkness, presumably to sniff the business card or stalk Peter on social media. Martin takes a sip of his coffee, concentrating on that, instead of his boss’s dysfunctional relationship. 

——

Jon starts hanging out in Martin’s booth whenever there’s a lull, which is quite frequent due to it being late September and not officially spooky season yet. Sometimes Jon will bring Martin tea, sometimes homemade snacks. Martin enjoys them with great enthusiasm. He enjoys the bashful, awkward smile that Jon gives in response to his compliments even more. Jon doesn’t seem to get complimented a lot, or perhaps isn’t sure how to respond to compliments. He waves them away, skirting the edges of self deprecation. It just serves to make Martin more determined to compliment him. 

On the last day of September, Jon brings Martin homemade chocolate eclairs and chamomile tea. Martin stuffs an eclair in his mouth to avoid doing something incredibly stupid, like kissing Jon or getting down on one knee. 

“These are so good,” Martin says, licking cream off of his thumb. 

“They’re not anything special,” Jon says, cupping his hands around his mug. His jumper has thumbholes, it’s adorable. 

“I disagree, these are bakery quality. The fancy, Kensington bakeries, not the Patisserie Valerie kind.”

Jon shrugs, looking down at his tea. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He does this for several moments. Martin sips his tea, letting Jon get to it in his own time. 

“Are you busy tomorrow?” Jon asks eventually. Tomorrow is Wednesday, the only day off they have. Elias legally has to give them one day off, though he makes it seem like he’s doing them a favour rather than obeying labour laws. Martin usually does laundry on his day off, not that he’s going to admit that to Jon.

“I’ve not got anything planned, why?”

“Crimson Peak is on at the BFI, and I wondered if you would, perhaps, want to go with me?”

Martin has heard of Crimson Peak, but Guillermo Del Toro movies really aren’t his thing. Martin is not going to be able to handle gore, blood or violence. Jumpscares are going to have him halfway out of his seat. 

“Like, is this a group outing or…” Martin trails off, not sure he wants to voice what he’s thinking. 

Jon blushes, looking up at the ceiling. “No, this is um… me asking you on a date. If you’re amenable.”

“Yes,” Martin says, “I would love to. Let me put my number in your phone, so we can sort out times.”

Jon smiles, handing over his phone. Martin programs his number in, texting himself a red heart emoji. Martin figures he’ll look the plot up on wikipedia later, so he won’t be too surprised by the jumpscares and he can always look away when it gets violent. 

Maybe it won’t even be that bad.

——

It’s so bad. The gothic romance is intriguing, Martin isn’t too upset about watching Tom Hiddleston, but the ghosts are dripping blood and so horribly mangled. Martin covers his eyes with his hands as a particularly horrendous ghost chases Mia Wasikowska down a corridor. Jon leans over the seat rest.

“Are you ok?” Jon asks, voice low and warm. 

“I’m not good with horror,” Martin whispers back. 

“What? Why didn’t you say?” 

The couple in front of Jon turn around to shush him. 

“I can get through it,” Martin murmurs, “just gotta not look at some bits.”

Martin lowers his hands, now that the ghosts are no longer lumbering across the screen. The house is falling apart, it’s a health hazard and ghost invested, why do they even live there? 

Martin puts his hand on the armrest, not really thinking about it. Jon slips his hand beneath Martin’s, interlacing their fingers. He leans over to whisper in Martin’s ear.

“You can hide in my shoulder. At the scary parts I mean.”

Martin grins, then grimaces as Mia coughs up blood, feeling that it ruins the moment somewhat.

——

“So, no more horror movies,” Jon queries in Wagamama’s after the movie. Martin splits his wooden chopsticks.

“I’m not a fan of being scared,” Martin says.

“You work in a haunted house,” Jon points out. 

“I needed the money. Besides, it’s not like I’m doing the scaring, or being scared. Except when you sneak up on me.”

“You make it too easy,” Jon teases. His eyes crinkle at the edges, softening his face, making him look at ease. Martin wonders what waking up to that face would be like. The perfect kind of morning, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains, a gentle, golden glow that wraps them both up. 

“It’s not…” Martin swallows, tries again. “It’s not a deal breaker, is it?”

Jon’s expression in response to Martin’s question makes him worry he’s put his foot in it.

“Of course not, why would it be?”

Martin shrugs. “It’s your favourite genre, pretty much all anyone talks about at work.”

Jon reaches across the table to take Martin’s hand. He rubs his thumb across Martin’s skin in a soothing manner. 

“I like other things you know. Yes, it’s, sort of, a large part of my personality, but I would never force you to engage with something that you don’t enjoy. As long as you don’t mind the occasional, informative, for lack of a better word monologue, then I don’t see it being a problem. Oh look, the starters are here.”

Jon lets go of Martin’s hand so that the waiter can place their order on the table. Martin takes a quick sip of his lemonade.

“So,” Jon says, once the waiter has left. “Tell me about the movies you like.”

——

There is a dramatic increase in customers once October rolls around. Jon still brings Martin tea, but they usually only get a few minutes to chat. They go out on dates when they can fit them in. Breakfasts instead of dinners, museum visits and bookshop outings and one Wednesday, Martin manages to convince Jon to come along to spoken word night in Dalston. Jon is polite, though poetry clearly isn’t his thing, and he claps with more enthusiasm for Martin’s poem than Martin thinks is warranted. 

They haven’t kissed yet. Jon likes hand holding, is freely affectionate with gentle touches to Martin’s arm, a guiding hand on his lower back. Jon enjoys looping his arm through Martin’s when they’re walking together, like a couple from an old movie. Martin loves the romance of it, walking arm-in-arm down the Southbank, wind ruffling their hair and the tassels of Jon’s cashmere scarf. 

Jon is always cold, bundles himself up in numerous layers and takes great pleasure in shoving his freezing fingers beneath Martin’s jumpers whenever he can get the chance. 

“Do you mind?” Martin grumbles as Jon wiggles himself into Martin’s lap, fingers seeking out warmer places. Martin has to discard his book, bringing his hand up to play with Jon’s hair. They’ve come into work early, to steal some moments to themselves. The dressing room seems eerily quiet with just them in it. 

“Elias better put the bloody heating on,” Jon mutters, “otherwise I’m going on strike.”

“We should do that anyway, force him to give us another day off.”

Jon hums, hands finally managing to untuck Martin’s shirt and touch skin. Martin sucks air in through his teeth, attempting to jostle Jon without fully pushing him off.

“Jesus Jon, your hands are freezing.”

“That’s why I’m putting them on your body,” Jon replies, “you emit heat like a furnace.”

“Yeah, I love being your personal space heater.”

Jon gives Martin a smug smile, moving his legs to situate himself more comfortably. 

“Cold hands, warm heart,” Martin says, more to himself than Jon.

“What?”

“Just something my mum used to say, cold hands, warm heart.”

“Of course your heart is warm, it’s inside your body.” 

Martin winds a few strands of Jon’s hair around his fingers, giving it a playful tug. Jon tilts his head to the left, eyes darting between Martin’s lips and eyes. 

“I haven't had much practise,” Jon says, apropo of nothing. 

“At what?”

A flush appears on Jon’s cheekbones. “Kissing. I don’t… I don’t do it often. My last partner, well, I just.”

Jon pauses, frustrated by his inability to communicate properly. 

“We don’t have to kiss if you’re not comfortable with it,” Martin says, keeping his voice low. Jon lets out an aggravated noise.

“No I want to, with you. I just can’t promise it will be good.”

Martin cups Jon’s cheek, running his thumb over the cheekbone. Jon melts into the touch, shoulders slumping. Martin guides Jon into a position where kissing will be comfortable, then leans forward to press his lips against Jon’s. Martin leans back and Jon chases him, sweet and eager. Martin laughs, brushing his nose against Jon’s before kissing him again.

Jon’s lips are soft and taste vaguely of the strawberry bubblegum chapstick that Martin bought him last week. He’s incredibly responsive, going where Martin leads him. Jon gasps when he feels the brush of Martin’s tongue against the seam of his mouth. Martin places his other hand on Jon’s hip, holding him steady. Jon pulls back, eyes hazy. He almost looks drunk, blissed out at the very least. 

“Was that ok?” Martin asks, rubbing the curve of Jon’s hip. Jon nods.

“I didn’t know that it could be like that.”

It’s Martin’s turn to be impossibly smug. He preens a little. 

“Yes alright Martin, don’t let it go to your head.” 

“Too late.”

Jon rolls his eyes, only slightly exasperated. Mostly fond. 

Martin pulls Jon into another kiss, enjoying the hitch of breath and subsequent soft moan. 

——

“Jon-- Jon mmmpfh, stop our break is over in five minutes.”

Martin tries to keep Jon from distracting him with more kisses. Jon’s lips are stained with Martin’s lipstick, making him look like he’s been snacking on blackberries. Now that Jon has permission to kiss Martin, he has been taking full advantage, with most of their break dissolving into kissing in the corridor behind the booth. 

“We can be a little late,” Jon murmurs. 

“We definitely can’t,” Martin says, “I don’t know how he does it but Elias sees everything. He knows what we’re doing, he keeps smiling at me.”

Jon sighs. “Can we not talk about Elias right now?”

“He sighed loudly, within my earshot and said ‘ _ young love _ ’ the other day, he’s for sure spying on us.” 

“Who’s spying on you?”

Martin jumps about a foot in the air, sending Jon clattering backwards. Tim is laughing so hard, he’s bent double, one hand on his knee to keep him from falling over. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin says, reaching out for Jon. Jon pats the crook of Martin’s arm, waving away his concern.

“I’m fine, do you need something Tim?”

Tim holds up a finger, still bent double.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Martin snaps, folding his arms across his chest. After weeks, he feels like he should be able to hear when people are approaching him, but every single person in this place moves silently. If Jon wasn’t warm and solid, Martin would be convinced he’s working with ghosts. 

Tim straightens up, wiping a tear from his eye. “Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that. Anyway, Sasha’s zombie makeup is starting to flake and Helen can’t do it because Daisy got her tail stuck in the cage hinges again.”

“Of course, well, I’ll see you later Martin.” 

Jon stalks off down the corridor, disappearing down the steps at the end.

Tim raises his eyebrows up and down at Martin, a sly grin on his face. It’s unnerving with his mad scientist getup and the amount of blood stains on his face.

“Your lipstick is smudged.”

“Oh sod off Tim.”

——

  
  


“Tim’s called in sick,” is the first thing Jon says when Martin comes into the dressing room. 

“Oh, poor Tim…”

“So you’re going to be taking over for Daisy, because Daisy’s taking over for Tim.”

“Wait, what?”

Jon is trying to corral Martin behind the changing room curtain, unsuccessfully given how Martin is taller, bigger and stronger than Jon. 

“You have to be the werewolf, because Daisy is the only one strong enough to wield the chainsaw.”

‘Tim’s had a chainsaw this whole time?”

Martin allows himself to be ushered behind the curtain, worried Jon will cause himself an injury.

“Why me? I don’t think I’ll be very good at this.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jon says, snapping the curtain shut. “Clothes off.”

Martin sighs, pulling his jumper over his head. “I hate being scared Jon. I’m also decidedly not scary.”

“Once you’re in the makeup, you’ll feel differently. All you have to do is growl at people and rattle the cage a few times. They’ve just come in from Michael’s corridor, they’ll be disoriented anyway.” 

“Not filling me with confidenc— AH!” 

Jon has whipped back the curtain. Martin frowns, opening his mouth to say something, but is stopped by Jon gently squishing Martin’s face between his hands. 

“You can do this, it’s just jumping out when people don’t expect it.”

Jon goes on his tiptoes to give Martin a soft kiss on the forehead. 

“Now, I need to find some ripped trousers, you need to get your clothes off because the tail is a nightmare to get on.”

Martin pulls the curtain closed, hoping Jon doesn’t expect him to wear those yellow contacts.

——

Martin wouldn’t say that he enjoys being a werewolf; he can’t wait to go back to the both, but rattling the cage when people walk by isn’t too difficult and he manages to catch people unawares by mostly hiding in the darkness. 

“Was that werewolf wearing glasses?” Someone asks as they exit his room.

Martin had refused the contacts, despite Jon’s needling about authenticity. 

“I won’t be able see anything, it’s dark and smokey in there.”

“Werewolves don’t wear glasses.”

“This one does! Unless you want said werewolf to crash into bars because he can't see where he’s bloody going!”

Martin’s glad this will be over soon, the prosthetic nose is making his real nose itch and he doesn’t particularly care for the fake fur. He yawns, stretching his arms above his head until he hears his shoulders pop. He thought running the till was tough, he didn’t realise how draining all this acting must be for everyone. 

Martin’s not sure how he’s going to handle acting for the Christmas season, is he’s kept on that is. It seems that not everyone sticks around for Santa’s workshop. Jon and Helen do, being responsible for costuming, but the others only stick around if there aren’t other options. The elf costumes and forced merriment being the off putting factors. Martin can’t quite believe he’s the only Christmas fan, the only one excited to be in a well-lit venue without bloodstains and smoke machines.

Martin hears Michael cackle loudly in the other room and trudges to the back of the cage, ready to jump out at the next lot of unsuspecting patrons. 

——

Jon is incredibly cat-like in a lot of ways, but it’s never more apparent than when he clambers into Martin’s lap at the end of the night, hair loose and glasses off, demanding to be pet. Martin is the first out of his costume, closing down the till after the last patrons disappear into the house, so Jon and Martin get a little time together before the rest of the crew descend on the dressing room. 

Jon’s head is in Martin’s lap, eyes closed. Martin’s playing with Jon’s hair, scritching at Jon’s scalp. Helen is tapping away on her phone, occasionally looking up at the two of them and smiling. Martin isn’t sure what the smile means exactly, it ranges somewhere between fond and scheming. 

The door opens with a bang, Tim having kicked it open. He groans, rubbing his hands over his face before running them through his hair. 

“God I’m tired, can’t believe this is our last week.”

“Halloween looms over us like a guillotine,” Helen says ominously. 

“Hmmm…” Tim says, “that’s a horrifying and accurate image. Cheers for that.”

“Is Halloween really that bad?” Martin asks. Jon nudges at Martin’s hand, wordlessly encouraging him to keep scratching. 

“Oh Martin,” Tim says, “you sweet, baby deer you.”

“Feel like that was unnecessary—”

“Halloween is the busiest night of this whole endeavour and we open earlier. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Elias is back with Peter so they’ll be making our lives hell.”

“Why can’t Peter just drown at sea,” Jon mumbles, mostly into Martin’s thighs rather than the room at large. 

“Why can’t Elias have some self respect and not take him back?” Helen asks.

“Because,” Tim says, putting his hands together, raising them up and down to emphasize his point. “Peter is loaded as fuck and there’s nothing Elias likes more than a man with a huge wallet.” 

Helen taps her finger against her lip, before diverting the conversion. 

“Do they sell red bull in bulk?”

Tim shrugs. “Better start packing it in now, would hate to run out on the day.”

Martin makes a mental note to get a good nights rest before Halloween. 

——

Halloween is absolute hell. It feels like all of London has descended onto their little haunted house, hungry for fear. Martin is exhausted by mid-afternoon, annoyed that his lipstick keeps flaking off despite reapplying it every five minutes, and is ready to curl up under the desk to die when his break finally comes. Martin slumps onto the sofa in the dressing room, waving away Tim’s offering of a red bull. 

“How many of those have you had?” Martin asks, taking his glasses off to clean them.

“A reasonable amount. Not enough to make my heart beat so fast I could die, but then again maybe having a heart attack would add a certain something to my performance.”

“Died as he lived,” Sasha says, “being a complete idiot.” 

Tim winks at Sasha. “You know it.”

Martin slides his glasses back on his head, yawning. The world shifts back into focus, and Jon with it, holding out a plastic container full of aromatic red lentil dal. Martin accepts the container and offered fork with a soft smile. 

“Thank you.”

Jon retrieves his own lunch before sitting down beside Martin, their knees touching.

“You’re welcome. I want you to savor it, but Elias is looking for you, so I imagine you’ll have to eat quickly.”

Martin breaks off a piece of roti, dipping it in the dal. “Mmm, delicious. Elias can wait, I want to enjoy this.”

“How come Martin gets a fancy lunch?” Tim complains. Martin curls protectively around his lunch. 

“Because he’s my boyfriend,” Jon says primly. 

Martin’s cheeks flush pink. It’s the first time Jon has referred to him as such. He presses a soft kiss to Jon’s cheek. 

Tim pretends to swoon. Sasha elbows him in the side.

——

Elias, when he’s behind his desk, wears gold, wire-rimmed spectacles that Martin is pretty sure he doesn’t need. Elias just likes looking down his nose at people. He’s shuffling some papers while Martin fidgets. Elias’s chair looks expensive and comfortable. The chair Martin is sat in, is decidedly cheaper and unpleasant to sit in. Martin hopes this will all be over soon, disgruntled that his break is being eaten up by Elias. 

“Well,” Elias says, placing the papers in a drawer. “This is not a performance review as such, but I have to say, I am pleased with your work ethic thus far.”

“Thank you,” Martin says, folding his hands in his lap. 

“Although, I would prefer that you and Jon didn’t use the service corridor to explore each other's tonsils, I suppose I can’t fault you for being in love.”

Martin remains quiet, anxiety twisting his insides like a child playing cats cradle. 

“So long as everyone keeps their clothes on, I see no reason to intervene,” Elias continues as if Martin’s obvious discomfort is amusing to him. “Though I suggest you keep it to a minimum come Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Certainly. Unless, you don’t wish to work with us over this next holiday period.”

“No, I mean, yes I would like to continue working here. Um, I was just surprised.”

Elias smiles, in a way he probably thinks is kindly. 

“Excellent, we’ll be setting up the winter wonderland in Mid-november, so you’ll have a couple of weeks of down time in between. I might ask you to play Santa, but I’m considering roping Peter in, out of spite.”

“I don’t think a spiteful Santa is the best idea for holiday cheer.”

“Perhaps not, but if I don’t test Peter now and then, he gets ideas about the nature of our relationship, and after our last divorce, I feel like I should make him work for it.”

Martin decides not to comment on that and makes a swift exit from the office. 

\----

Two am finds the entire crew in the Polo Bar opposite Liverpool street station, taking up the entire back half of the restaurant like a pack of ravenous wolves. They’ve crammed into booths and slumped over tables, coming down from the adrenaline high of their final shift and all desperately hungry. 

Melanie and Daisy are arguing about ghosts, both halfway through chicken burgers, while Basira calmly sips a black coffee. Michael is braiding Gerry’s hair, which Gerry seems too tired to care about. Helen and Sasha have fallen asleep in a booth, unfinished pancakes in front of them. 

“So you’re sticking around for winter wonderland,” Tim says, dipping a chunky chip into the runny yolk of his egg. 

“Elias wants me to be Santa,” Martin replies, “though he’s considering asking Peter.”

“Peter hates human joy so you’ll definitely be Santa,” Tim replies.

Martin shrugs, covering his mouth as he yawns. Jon is winding his way through the tables, mug of tea in one hand and ketchup in the other. He hands the ketchup to Martin before sliding into the booth next to him. The mug clinks against the wood of the tabletop. 

“Just so you know,” Jon says, “you’ll have to take the Santa beard off before you kiss me.”

Tim laughs while Martin rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not kissing you as Santa. If a kid catches us it’ll give them a complex.”

“I caught mommy kissing Santa Claus,” Tim says in a sing-song voice.

“Gross, never say that again.”

Jon rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, interlocking their hands under the table. This leaves Martin eating his chips one handed, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. 


End file.
